


Past Particulars

by methylviolet10b



Series: Emergency Contact Number [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade and Mycroft arrive at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Particulars

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the story started in Emergency Contact Number and Imperfect Tense. If you haven't read those, you might not want to read this. Also, like those others, this too is a promptfic. The prompt was:
> 
> A Foggy Day (in London Town)
> 
> I was a stranger in the city  
> Out of town were the people I knew  
> I had that feeling of self-pity  
> What to do? What to do? What to do?  
> The outlook was decidedly blue  
> But as I walked through the foggy streets alone  
> It turned out to be the luckiest day I've known
> 
> A foggy day in London Town  
> Had me low and had me down  
> I viewed the morning with alarm  
> The British Museum had lost its charm  
> How long, I wondered, could this thing last?  
> But the age of miracles hadn't passed,  
> For, suddenly, I saw you there  
> And through foggy London Town  
> The sun was shining everywhere.

Mycroft had a key to Sherlock’s flat.

Lestrade didn’t know why this fact surprised him so much, but it did. He himself had a key, of course, but that was because John had slipped him one a couple of months ago, his look saying without words that it was strictly for emergencies only, and that if he ever let Sherlock know he’d given it to him, there’d be hell to pay. Somehow Lestrade couldn’t imagine John giving one to Mycroft under similar circumstances, and as for Sherlock voluntarily giving anyone access to _anything_ he considered his…

Well, okay, maybe his surprise wasn’t so surprising. Then again, this was Mycroft Holmes. He probably had a key to the flat before his brother’s signature on the lease was dry.

Lestrade didn’t hear any noise coming from the flat, but warm yellow light streamed from underneath the sitting-room door. Mycroft turned the handle and went in without knocking, as if he was expected, Lestrade right on his heels despite thinking that this wasn’t the smartest way to approach the situation. Startling Sherlock – or even just walking in on him unannounced – was never a good thing in Lestrade’s experience. Then again, he couldn’t think of _any_ good way to approach this, and maybe Mycroft knew something he didn’t.

Sherlock stood hunched over the kitchen table, a Bunsen burner setup with flasks and liquids bubbling away in front of him. Barefoot, tousle-headed, clad in slacks, shirt, and a dressing-gown, with a pair of plastic safety goggles over his eyes, he looked so mad-scientist _normal_ (oddly enough, Sherlock in mad-scientist mode was one of his more reassuring and amenable phases) that Lestrade’s chest gave a little flutter of relief. Despite Mycroft’s assurance that Sherlock was at home at the flat, a tiny part of Lestrade’s mind had continued to worry that Sherlock, too, had been in that cab.

Sherlock glanced up from his experiment, and went utterly still. His eyes flickered over them. “Mycroft,” he snapped, then “Lestrade?” His eyes widened fractionally behind the protective plastic, and if it had been anyone else, Lestrade would have said he went white. Sherlock didn’t have enough color to go white – he was already the whitest person Lestrade knew – and yet something about his face suddenly screamed pallor in a way that it hadn’t moments before.

“John.” It was barely a whisper, scarcely heard, but Sherlock’s single syllable hit Lestrade like a fist to the gut. He’d watched Sherlock deduce for years now, and here he saw it again: just like that he knew, of course he knew, deduced it simply from the fact that both he and Mycroft were here together at this hour. What else, after all, would bring them both? The lanky man scrambled out from behind the kitchen table, his experiment forgotten, all his attention focused on them – and on the man not in the room with them. “Where is he? What’s happened?”

He’d probably already guessed, but Lestrade said the words anyway. “Sherlock, John’s been in an accident. He’s in hospital - ”

“Then let’s go.” Sherlock seized his wrist in an iron grip and would have yanked Lestrade through the door, but Mycroft placed a hand on his brother’s other arm. Just placed, not took hold, but Sherlock stopped as if he’d hit a brick wall.

“Calm yourself, Sherlock.”

Three words, uttered in mild, controlled tones, shouldn’t have been able to control anyone, much less Sherlock in something as close to a panic as Lestrade had ever seen him. Yet Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath through his nose. When he opened them again, he pinned Mycroft with the full intensity of his gaze, utterly ignoring everyone and everything else, including Lestrade, despite the continued death-grip on his wrist. “Tell me.”

Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s eyes locked with his brother’s, but his voice remained utterly commonplace, factual. “Dr. Watson’s cab was involved in a multi-vehicle collision. He was evacuated from the scene and is currently in surgery. I’ve sent my assistant on ahead to the hospital. She’s handling everything until we arrive, and will inform me the moment there is any change or news. So you might as well dress yourself properly. There is no need to hurry. I’ve a car at the door when you’re ready.”

Eminently sensible words. Perfectly ordinary words, in fact, and quite a bit less detailed than what Lestrade had learned from his contact, or for that matter what Mycroft had told Lestrade during the car ride here. Yet Sherlock stared at his brother as if he’d said something quite different, almost extraordinary. He blinked once, then let go of Lestrade’s wrist and whirled away, back to the kitchen to turn off the burner and then striding towards his bedroom without another word. Lestrade heard the bedroom door open and close, firmly but quietly.

Beside him, he heard Mycroft take a breath. Not a deep one, but audible, a softly human sound that abruptly alerted Lestrade to the fact that he’d been holding his own. He breathed in, then let it out with a gusty sigh. Mycroft gave him an inquiring look, apparently unruffled by the fraught emotions that had just whiplashed through the flat.

 _Did nothing rattle him?_ Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on the sudden surge of irritation and unease that swept through him. He was a professional, damn it, and he ought to appreciate Mycroft’s calm professionalism in return. Certainly he’d handled breaking the news to Sherlock with far greater ease than Lestrade had ever expected possible. But right now Lestrade didn’t feel like a professional, didn’t feel calm. He felt like _a friend_ , and wondered where the brother was in the midst of all those collected responses. He made an effort and shoved that (ungrateful, unreasonable, _human_ ) thought aside. “Should I go pack a bag?” he asked instead. “You know, for John?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised slightly. “A kind impulse, Detective Inspector, but regrettably I doubt such a bag will be of any immediate use.”

He was right, Mycroft was undoubtedly right, but something made Lestrade keep pushing the point anyway. “It might give him something to hold onto. Sherlock, I mean,” he clarified when Mycroft gave him another of those blandly inquiring looks. “You know, a sign of hope or something.”

“Oh, I see.” Mycroft’s brows knitted just as infinitesimally as they had raised. “That’s an interesting idea, Detective Inspector. I appreciate your concern on my brother’s behalf, and if this was anyone _but_ my brother…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew momentarily distant before he shook his head. “Such a gesture would only irritate him, not comfort him, I’m afraid.”

Lestrade felt his lips tighten into a thin line. He tried to control it, but he just couldn’t help himself. “I suppose you’d know.”

If Mycroft noticed his frustration, he gave no sign. “Yes, Detective Inspector, I do.”

The bedroom door opened again, and Sherlock walked out into the sitting room, fully dressed and already wrapped up his usual great coat and scarf. Seeing him, a sudden lump constricted Lestrade’s throat. Something about Sherlock looked…frozen. It wasn’t any one thing that Lestrade could put his finger on, no obvious facial expression or movement, but there all the same. This man wasn’t the same one John shared a flat with, the one whom Lestrade had seen rattling off rapid-fire deductions with a gleam in his eye and flagging down innumerable taxis. The Sherlock he’d grown used to seeing with John was warmer, looser – not someone you’d ever mistake for a bastion of warmth, or even all that approachable, but subtly relaxed in ways Lestrade hadn’t even realized until now, when it was utterly gone from the man currently in front of him.

With an effort of will, Lestrade repressed the wince he could feel wanting to crease his face. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if he’d ever see the Sherlock he’d grown used to again, John’s Sherlock, the Sherlock of sideways smiles at his flatmate, occasional glints of humor among the biting comments, the one he’d once memorably seen (and heard) sing two entire verses of _A Foggy Day in_ _London Town_ as a very effective and utterly unanticipated distraction for a pub-full of ugly customers, in a voice Donovan wonderingly described afterwards as “a leopard in a cello, freakishly beautiful.” The Sherlock he’d once overheard _giggling_ with John at a crime scene, like a happy child.

That man was nowhere in evidence now, and Lestrade felt the sinking, unshakable certainty that if John didn’t survive, didn’t make it home, that Sherlock would never be seen again.

Sherlock stopped directly in front of his brother, once again ignoring Lestrade. “I’m ready,” he said calmly.

Mycroft nodded. “Then let us be on our way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 19, 2011


End file.
